Ruin of Souls
by TraSan
Summary: Originally published in the zine "Blood Brothers 5." Two parts Winchester, one part haunting with a twist of lemon - on the rocks.
1. Chapter 1

**The Ruin of Souls**

**Disclaimer: **The Winchesters belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Edited: **by Teajunkie. Thank you for all your help polishing this piece.

**Author's Note: **This story originally appeared in the zine _Blood Brothers 5_. If you are interested in purchasing _Blood Brothers 6_ or any past zine please contact A J Wesley – she's listed in my favorite authors.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

The Impala's tires hummed on the wet asphalt, providing a steady drone to match the rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers. Dean wished for the hundredth time that day that he'd taken twenty minutes to wrestle Black Sabbath out of the cassette player when his car had turned against him and eaten the treasured tape. Instead, he was singing slightly off-key to "Bad Moon Rising" along with the radio. He was just glad he'd left Sam back at the motel room so he didn't have to defend himself against a raised eyebrow when he hit a sour note.

Lightning flashed over the dark hilltops in the distance, drawing Dean's attention. When he focused again on the road, his headlights illuminated the figure of a young woman standing on the gravel shoulder. He pumped the break, pulling to a stop not five feet from her. The woman's raven hair hung in wet strands, framing her pale face. She looked absolutely miserable and far be it from Dean Winchester to leave a damsel in distress at night, in the rain, along a nearly deserted road.

Dean left the car idling, the headlights capturing the falling raindrops, hiked his shirt collar farther up his neck, and slid out the door. His boots clumped noisily against the tarmac in contrast to the gentle sound of the light but penetrating rain. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Her wide brown eyes reflected palpable sadness even in the near blackness surrounding them. "He's trying to hurt me," she whispered. "I didn't think, I just ran."

Dean bit his cheek to stop from swearing. He just didn't understand men who hurt the ones they professed to love, and her vulnerability definitely stirred all his protective instincts. She was shivering, he noticed, soaked to the bone in nothing but a thin, flowing nightgown.

"You're going to be okay. I'll help you."

She smiled at him—a ghost of a smile—but her upturned lips caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. He didn't know why he hadn't recognized her for what she was through his rain-slicked windshield, but he knew now and he took an instinctual step back.

"Daniel's close," she whispered. She glanced around in obvious fear, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, staring out into the night.

"He won't get you," Dean assured her, keeping a safe distance. "Can you tell me what happened?" As much as he didn't like it, he needed information from her if he was going to put an end to this.

"I was all alone," she said, despair ringing through each word. "No one helped me."

"It's okay," Dean said, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He's not going to get you. Just tell me."

"He'll find me," she said, her voice rising in panic. She grabbed one of Dean's arms in her deathly icy hand, the other she placed on his cheek. "He's here!"

Dean frowned and, before he could fully comprehend what she was saying, all the heat was sucked from his body. He was frozen to the spot, unable to move away. Behind him, the Impala's engine chugged sluggishly and stalled. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath. He could see the town lights from here. He doubted they were more than a couple miles away, and all he could think about was how one impulsive act of chivalry was going to bite him in the ass. "S-stop."

Her form blinked twice, and he reached out only to grasp open air, a puddle of water on the ground where she had stood. The temperature dropped dramatically, and Dean could see his breath on each exhale. "Aw, shit," he said, "Dean, you idiot." He was damp from the rain, his jacket in the backseat, his shotgun even farther away, locked neatly in the trunk. "Of all the stupid…"

The air in front of him wavered as the spirit blinked back into view. She looked terrified now, her deep brown eyes round with fear.

"I'm so cold."

She moved closer, her spectral form leeching more heat from his body until he shivered so hard his teeth rattled in his head. He had to get away from her, but the cold made his movements stiff.

"Please, help me."

"I-I will," Dean stuttered. "Tell me where you are."

She tilted her head, frowning, her brow furrowing in a way similar to Sam's. She looked confused by his request.

"Tell me where you are and I'll help you."

"No one can help me," she said with a resigned tone. "I'm alone."

She blinked out again, and Dean stumbled toward the car, finally able to move. He fumbled with the door handle with numb fingers. The door finally open, he pulled the keys out of the ignition, and staggered to the trunk. It took several tries with a shaking hand to get the key into the lock and turn it. Dean didn't even bother propping up the lid, just grabbed his shotgun and slammed it closed again.

When he sat back in the car, he kept the shotgun tucked in his armpit pointed toward the roof. He wasn't setting down the weapon for a second, not with Mrs. Freeze honed in on his ass. He turned the key in the ignition, hoping it would start. "Please, baby, please." The engine roared to life. "Yes!"

He turned all the vents toward him, carefully eased back onto the road, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. It was time to get as much distance between him and Casper the Frigid Ghost as possible. Then he and Sam could figure out exactly who she was and put an end to her hitchhiking days.

**0-0-**

By the time Dean pulled into the motel parking lot, he'd barely warmed up at all. The chill the spirit had brought with her had soaked in deep; he couldn't stop shivering. It must have taken him longer than he'd thought to turn off the car and move to get out because Sam was hovering outside his window before he could get the door open.

"Dean?"

Dean shook his head, motioning for Sam to move out of the way.

As usual, his brother didn't listen. He ripped the door open and leaned into the car. "Dean, what the hell?"

Sam's hand felt hot against his frozen cheek.

"Dude, you're a popsicle."

"Explain later," Dean gritted out through his chattering teeth. "Need to get warmed up first."

"Yeah, of course." Sam wrapped a hand around Dean's arm and tugged him out of the car. Although Sam released his hold, he stayed right by Dean's elbow the entire walk into the room. "Sit down," Sam commanded.

Dean frowned but sat in the chair, regardless. He felt something warm wrap around his shoulders and recognized the blanket as the one from Sam's bed. A mug of steaming coffee was pushed into his hands and Dean took a sip, enjoying the warmth that slowly spread throughout his chest. "There was this woman," he started.

Sam grinned, dimples sinking into his cheeks. "Why do all your stories start that way?"

"Shut it," Dean said without any real heat. "Do you want to hear this or not?"

Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs at the ankles. "Don't stop. I can't wait to hear the rest."

Dean scowled and started again. "She was standing in the rain at the side of the road and I thought she was lost or something." He paused, waiting for Sam to comment.

The smirk disappeared from Sam's face and he rolled his hand for Dean to continue.

"She looked scared, said someone named Daniel was after her." Dean took another sip of coffee and pulled the blanket tighter. He couldn't shake the chill. "Even after I knew, I couldn't leave her there without trying to do something."

Sam's frown was joined by the one creasing his forehead. "What _exactly _happened?"

"After we started talking, that's when it got all weird," Dean said. He nearly snorted at the concerned look on Sam's face. "Nothing weird like that, Sam. She started telling me about how _he _was close by, how she was alone and no one could help her…" He trailed off as he approached the crucial point he'd been avoiding. He really was never going to hear the end of it.

"Dean, what?" Sam asked, leaning forward.

"She's a spirit."

And just like that his brother put together all the facts. Sam's face changed from concern, to understanding, and then he rolled his eyes when the final piece clicked in place. "Let me get this straight. My brother, _Dean Winchester_," Sam said his name as if it was synonymous with ghost hunter, "tried to pick up a _spirit _standing alongside the road?"

Hell, it sounded even stupider when Sam said it. "Um, yeah?"

The smirk was back on Sam's face, spread so wide his dimples reappeared. He reached out with one impossibly long arm and cuffed Dean, albeit softly, upside his head. "Upstairs brain, bro."

"It wasn't like that, Sam," Dean growled. Okay, so maybe it was a _little _like that, but damned if he was going to admit that to his brother. "I thought she was in real trouble out there."

"Sounds like she was," Sam admitted. "At least at one time." He leaned to the side and sat back up, laptop in hand. Sam flipped it open as he set it down. He paused, his fingers hovering over the keys. "Did she say anything that might give you a clue as to who she was or what happened?"

"No." Dean shook his head. "Wait, yes, she said his name was Daniel. Maybe her husband or something?"

Sam nodded, his fingers flying over the keys. Dean continued to drink his cooling coffee, content in the knowledge he could feel his toes again. Several minutes later, Sam's forehead smoothed, and the lines around his mouth disappeared.

Dean knew that look; his brother had found answers. "What?"

"Elisabeth Johnson," Sam said, his eyes tracking as he read information off the screen. "Her husband, Daniel, reported her missing in April of 1904. No trace of her was ever found and local law enforcement suspected Daniel but couldn't prove anything."

Dean snorted. "Seriously?"

Sam nodded and tugged on his lips twice before he ran a hand through his hair, pulling his bangs back. "I just don't understand how a guy can profess to love his wife and then just—"

"Me neither," Dean interrupted. He stood and clapped Sam on the shoulder. "I'm going to take a shower, see if I can warm up."

Sam nodded absently, his mind obviously still working through the facts he'd read. "I'm going to research a little more, see if I can find anything." He looked up at Dean. "We are going to check this out, right?"

"Hell, yeah." Dean walked slowly to the bathroom, his joints stiff from cold. They were going to check this out all right. Daniel may not be alive and kicking anymore, but Dean was going to take great pleasure in freeing Elisabeth from her husband's abuse once and for all.

**0-0-**

Dean was finally warm. Last night, he'd eaten dinner and then slept like a log, crashing hard after his shower. He'd opened his eyes to be greeted by his brother bearing coffee and doughnuts and, judging by the look of satisfied curiosity on Sam's face, he had a lead on Elisabeth. As far as Dean was concerned, the day was looking pretty good.

"What'cha got?" Dean asked with a yawn. He sat up and gladly accepted the proffered coffee.

Sam sat on the opposite bed, which Dean couldn't help but notice was made, so he doubted his brother had slept.

Sam opened the paper bag and ticked off the contents. "Glazed, jelly-filled, and if you can believe this, crullers. They actually had crullers."

"I meant, what did you find out?" Dean asked. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sam could be so single-minded at times.

"I was going to let you eat first," Sam said.

Dean raised his eyebrows and waved his hand holding the coffee cup in his brother's direction to get him to continue.

"Yeah, okay," Sam said. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, effectively bridging the distance between them. "Elisabeth and Daniel didn't live far from town at all, two to three miles maybe, out on a farm he'd inherited from his grandfather. By all accounts they were a happy, church-going, community-minded couple."

Sam paused long enough to take a sip of his coffee. At the speed in which he was relaying information, Dean suspected it wasn't his brother's first cup.

"Elisabeth had one late-term stillborn infant according to church records. Per the local doctor, Richard Staton, she had suspicious bruising on her stomach and back when she lost the baby, and he theorized she'd been beaten, not that she'd fallen down the stairs as she'd claimed."

"That was part of the church records?" Dean asked. He was surprised that given such information the police hadn't tried harder to pin Elisabeth's disappearance on Daniel. Then again, given the time period, maybe it wasn't so surprising.

"Uh, not exactly," Sam confessed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "More like a letter Doctor Staton wrote to his colleague, Doctor Thielson, in Boston. The letter is part of the Thielson House museum display."

Dean shook his head in amazement. He was no slouch when it came to research, but sometimes, even after everything, Sam's abilities managed to surprise him. He must have been up most of the night. "So, Farmer Dan beats his wife, causes her to lose their child, and then what? Snaps and kills her?"

"That's my guess," Sam said, turning the cup in his hand. "He probably felt guilty about what he'd done. Devastated by the loss of his child and, obviously, he had a history of beating her."

"The guy was a class-A asshole," Dean said, swinging his legs off the bed. "I hope he got what he deserved."

"Well, that's the other thing," Sam said, leaning back to give Dean room to pass by. "Elisabeth was Daniel's second wife. He and his first wife, Judith, had two children, both sons, Daniel Jr. and Jacob. She died after a fall from a horse."

Dean snorted.

Sam nodded in agreement before he continued. "But by all accounts, Daniel lived for two more decades before he disappeared. They never found him and I can't find any evidence anyone tried very hard to look for him, either."

"Good riddance." Dean reached down for his jeans and t-shirt. "So, all we have to do is find the bones of a woman he buried God-knows-where, and salt and burn her before she manages to give us both hypothermia."

"That's about it," Sam agreed.

"Perfect."

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

The day was rainy and gray. The dismal brown landscape whizzed by his window in a depressing blur. Sam's knee bounced and he beat his thumb against the door in a steady rhythm in time with the windshield wipers. Caffeinated energy was jangling his nerves and he couldn't help the kinetic movements. The third time Dean tossed him an exasperated look, Sam put his hands on his legs to stop them. "Judith is buried on the property." Sam's knee started jumping again. "He might have buried Elisabeth nearby, kept her close, marked the grave somehow. Wherever it is, something has happened recently to cause her spirit to be active after all this time."

"Good thing it's still daylight," Dean said, "and the property is so secluded. This is going to take forever."

"Maybe we'll get lucky."

Dean snorted.

Sam couldn't help but agree with him. Luck was not usually what came their way.

"And maybe a magical leprechaun will appear and give us a pot of gold," Dean shot back.

Sam huffed and pulled the map out of the glove box. He fished his flashlight out of his pocket and flicked it on. He glanced at the odometer and then back at the map. "Turn should be right around here."

"I don't see any—. Never mind."

Dean turned sharply, the motion throwing Sam against the passenger door. "Nice driving," Sam teased.

"Whatever. Your directions suck."

Sam chuckled. He peered out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the farmhouse. The gravel road was bumpy, and he heard Dean curse under his breath. "Over there." Sam pointed to the left.

Dean nodded, slowing the Impala to a near stop before turning onto the faint, overgrown driveway. "You always take me to the nicest places," he said in a falsetto.

"Ha-ha." Sam rolled his eyes, but the grin took a while to fade. He carefully folded the map and stuffed it back in the glove box as the Impala rolled to a stop. The thick grove of trees surrounding the house blocked a good portion of the meager sunlight so he pocketed his flashlight. It never hurt to be prepared. At least the rain had slowed to a light drizzle. By the time he made his way around to the trunk, Dean was already rummaging through the weapons stash.

"Here," Dean said, handing Sam his Taurus.

"Thanks." Sam snagged his favorite knife as well and tucked it safely into his inside jacket pocket along with the lock-pick set. "The family plot shouldn't be far from the house, but they'd want to keep it away from the watershed line."

Dean stood up, slammed the trunk shut, and looked around. He pointed to his left with the barrel of the shotgun. "That way."

Sam nodded in agreement and fell into step beside his brother. The early winter skies were completely overcast. As they walked farther into the trees and uphill, the clouds met them, ethereal fingers of misty white blocking more of the light and chilling the air.

"There," Dean said, pointing to the left.

The modest marker for Judith was one of the only graves in the whole plot whose epitaph was still clearly visible. Most of the others were weatherworn, barely legible, or missing entirely. They split up to cover the area. Sam searched, looking for any sign that might indicate where Elisabeth was buried, if she was buried there at all. After a half-hour of fruitless searching, he had to admit defeat. If her body was there, it was impossible to tell where.

A flash of white caught his attention through the strands of low-lying clouds and dark trees. "Dean, I think I see her!" he called over his shoulder. Dry twigs snapped under his boots as Sam strode deeper into the cover of the trees. He stopped where he thought he'd seen the spirit and glanced around. He'd just about given up and started to head back when he spotted another flash slightly downhill toward the old farmhouse.

He pulled out his cell to let Dean know he was definitely onto a lead on Elisabeth's remains. He glanced at the readout—only two bars, but that was enough.

"Where are you?" Dean demanded before Sam had a chance to say anything.

"About two clicks east of the family plot. Look, I think I've had two glimpses of Elisabeth already, and she seems to be leading me downhill toward the farm." A breeze blew through the trees and several rain-soaked leaves fell from their branches, one landing on his head. He scrunched his shoulders as water ran down his collar and he reached up to brush the sodden mass off his head.

"Keep following her," Dean said, his tone definitely less hostile now. "I'm right behind you."

Sam spun in a circle. He searched the landscape in all directions. "The thing is, I don't—" The rest of what he was about to say was cut off when something hit his head again. This time it wasn't a clump of wet leaves. It was hard, heavy, and thrown with enough force to knock him to his knees. "Dean," he whispered as he continued the rest of the way to the ground and the world blinked out.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading!

46


	2. Chapter 2

**The Ruin of Souls**

**Disclaimer: **The Winchesters belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Edited: **by Teajunkie. Thank you for all your help polishing this piece.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Consciousness came slowly, his brain quietly whispering at him to stay under; it was safer and quieter in oblivion. As Sam's eyes blinked open, his breath quickened, straining to pull in air with a heavy weight resting on his chest. He was in utter darkness, unable to discern even shadows. That, and he was cold. No, make that freezing. His new world was silent save for his own breathing.

Sam tried to move his arm to reach the flashlight in his pocket, but it was pinned underneath him, the other trapped between his chest and whatever was on top of him. Wherever he was, it was cramped, leaving little room to maneuver. It smelled of mildew and old dust. Every small movement he managed was accompanied by sharp bursts of pain up his neck into his head, and something crunched underneath him. Sam knew he had to move, but the confined space and intense cold were conspiring against him.

Finally, he was able to get a numb hand into his pocket and retrieve his flashlight. It must have kicked up a fresh cloud of dust, because something tickled his nose and he sneezed several times. Sam groaned, and with shaking fingers he slid the switch on and took a look around his prison. It took his brain a few moments to figure out exactly where he was, and when he did, it caused panic to scrabble up his throat. He was lying in a pit in the ground; the low, domed-shaped, stone structure around him was windowless with a heavy wooden door. If he had to guess, he'd say it was an old icehouse. It would certainly fit given the time period the house was built and the intense cold.

He shone the light around the small space, then at whatever was pinning him to the bottom. He wasn't the only one in the pit. Elisabeth's mummified face was exposed and remarkably still mostly preserved, permanently frozen in sleep. She was wrapped in burlap and thick twine. Her shrunken form was leathery brown, and Sam could see Elisabeth's spirit, superimposed over her body. The edges of her frostbitten skin blurred when the ghost stirred and reached out a hand to touch Sam's face. He jerked his head back, hitting it soundly against the hard-packed ground. Her fingers burned his skin and his flashlight sputtered, but stayed on.

"He's here," Elisabeth whispered.

"D-Daniel?" Sam asked. He tried to free one of his legs. He needed the extra leverage to get Elisabeth's body off him, but they were twisted, hopelessly trapped and bent under him with zero clearance. He used the hand with the flashlight to push against Elisabeth's body. Her corpse was heavy, a leaden weight that pushed against him with a supernatural force.

"I'm so cold." Elisabeth's spirit leaned into him, her ghostly head and hands resting on his chest, seeking the gap between his buttons to place them on the thin material of his t-shirt. Her physical body's face pressed up against his when he shifted, trying to get his other hand free. "I don't want to be alone."

"Dean!" Sam shouted, or rather attempted to shout. The cold stole his breath and he coughed weakly. It wasn't the cold, he realized, but the air itself. It was stale and thin, and it felt as if he was quickly running out of it.

With a surge of adrenaline, Sam clawed and pushed against Elisabeth's body. It fell to the side and he scrambled backward until he hit the wall. He patted the outside of his jacket and jeans, searching for his phone. When his brain sluggishly caught up to his actions, he remembered he'd been talking to Dean when he'd been blindsided. His phone was probably nestled in the fallen leaves. Perfect.

"Dean!" Sam groaned as the force of another cough rattled his head, and although thoughts of a concussion ran through his mind, it really didn't seem important at the moment.

"Don't worry," Elisabeth cooed softly in his ear, her breath only chilling Sam more. "It only hurts for a little while."

Sam ignored her. He certainly didn't plan to stay there long enough to find out. He twisted around, and his knees creaked in protest of the cold. He dug his fingers into the crumbling mortar between the stones as he pulled himself to his feet. The low clearance forced him to stoop over. He made his way to the door on clumsy feet, using the wall for support.

He struggled with the rusty latch, but the door didn't budge. It didn't appear locked; it just wouldn't open. He coughed, the freezing, stale air burning his lungs. He couldn't wait for Dean to find him; Sam didn't even know where the icehouse was located. He could be miles away from where he and Dean had been searching. It would certainly help explain how Elisabeth's body had gone undiscovered for over a century.

A ricochet in the tiny space could be disastrous, but Sam figured it was worth the risk if Dean heard the gunfire. Better a bullet than slowly freezing to death anyway. Sam slowly, painfully inched his hand behind him to the gun he had tucked safely in the hidden keep of his jeans. He fumbled blindly with the weapon as he fought to get it loose. Normally it just slipped out, but then again, normally he wasn't fighting frostbite. When it finally broke free, Sam let out a sob of relief.

It took supreme effort to get the weapon untangled and out in front of him. His hand was shaking so hard, he wasn't sure he could fire the gun. His finger stuck to the metal trigger and that was when Sam noticed the blood. He'd torn up his hand on the rough-hewn stones earlier, and hadn't even felt it. He used one arm to shield his ears, jammed the muzzle of the gun into the ancient wood, and fired. The gunshot rang out like a bomb going off in the small space. As he emptied his clip, the weapon fire seemed to suck the last of the precious air out of the room.

As he sank to the floor, Sam could only hope Dean had heard.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

"Damn it, Sam, I can't leave you alone for five minutes," Dean grumbled to hide his worry. A few minutes with Elisabeth's spirit in the rain had left him shivering and bone-cold for hours. Sam had been missing for over thirty minutes. He'd tried calling Sam back, but it went straight to voicemail every time.

A muffled gunshot sounded to his left and Dean took off running, heedless of the slippery leaves under his feet. Nearly hidden by thick trees and fog, a small, moss-covered, domed stone structure sat tucked neatly into the hillside. "Sam!" His voice reverberated in reply, but the woods remained eerily silent.

Dean's feet slid in the mud in his haste, and he braced his hand on the wall as he circled around to the front. "Sam!" He'd have felt better if he had heard any noise from the other side of the door. He tried the knob and it turned easily, but the door didn't budge. It was possible the lock was catching. Dean felt in his pockets for the lock-pick set—then remembered where he saw it last: in Sam's hand right before he'd stuffed it inside his jacket.

Dean jerked his head, his face scrunched. Fine, he would do this his way. "Sam, if you're in there, move away from the door!" he shouted as he lifted his leg and gave the door a solid kick. The wood groaned in protest, but didn't give in the slightest. He stood with one hand braced on the door, chest heaving, and contemplated his next move. When cold seeped into his jacket and a white breath of air appeared on his next exhale, Dean straightened, shotgun drawn and ready.

Elisabeth hovered a mere three feet from him, her eyes reflecting a deep despair that seemed to amplify the chill that surrounded her. "I'm so cold."

Dean's teeth chattered from the supernaturally induced cold even as the heat of anger rose from within. Yet, he resisted the urge to try to get intel from a ghost, knowing it wouldn't do him any good. If he'd needed any proof Sam was inside, Elisabeth showing up was enough for him. And if Sam had been with her for over half an hour, he was definitely in trouble. The problem, of course, was the door wasn't budging out of sheer desperation alone. He needed the ax from the Impala. "Sam, hang in there. I'll be right back."

"Don't leave us alone," Elisabeth keened from behind him.

Dean ignored her, just as he tried to ignore the anxiety burning in his chest. He dropped the duffel by the door to lighten his load, and ran at top speed to the car. The keys jangled noisily in his hand as he worked the lock before the trunk finally popped open. He dug around for the ax, slammed the lid closed, and took off back into the woods. Luckily, the small structure wasn't far.

"Sammy, I'm here. Stand back." He waited for a second and strained to hear anything from the other side of the door. As before, Sam remained quiet. Dean set the shotgun down, gripped the ax tightly in panic-sweaty hands, and swung.

The ancient wood splintered and gave way easily. "Thank God something's going right," Dean muttered under his breath and swung again. It was slow work. Way too slow. "Sam, man, talk to me." He waited a second for a response, then swung for the third time.

A crack appeared. The fourth swing caused enough stress fractures on the door to push a section inside. A blast of freezing air blew out of the hole, carrying the stench of decay and musty hay. Dean wrinkled his nose, but it didn't stop him from shining his light into the jagged opening. He couldn't see Sam. Maybe he'd been wrong.

Angling the light downward, Dean caught sight of the toes of Sam's boot. "Damn it!" he swore for the second time. Sam was lying in front of the door. "Sam, you have to move." There wasn't a twitch from his brother. Dean fidgeted and adjusted his stance. He quickly ran through various scenarios, but this was the fastest way to get to his brother, and Sam's lack of responsiveness grated on his frayed nerves.

Reaching a decision, he swung the ax viciously several times in rapid succession until something gave with a loud _crack_ and the door splintered enough for Dean to kick out several large pieces. He squeezed through the opening, sharp wooden splinters digging into his jacket. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't so much as blink. He didn't even appear to be breathing. Dean knew the drill; he had to be extremely careful moving his brother or it could set off a chain of events that could kill Sam. That, and his brother wasn't exactly a lightweight. He'd been hard enough to manhandle when Dean had first picked him up from Stanford, but Sam had steadily packed on lean muscle since then, and he was definitely heavier than he looked.

"Hey, wake up." Dean touched Sam's cheek, his heart thudding against his ribs when he realized how cold his brother was. "Help me out here, bro."

There was zero response from Sam. Dean knew he had to act now. Screw the risks. If his brother wasn't breathing, what did it matter anyway? Dean placed trembling fingers on Sam's neck, searching for a pulse. The sluggish beat brought instant relief, and now that he wasn't on the verge of panic, he could see the slow and shallow rise of Sam's chest. Dean let out a sigh of relief. Sam was alive. He could work with anything past there.

Dean pushed his brother along the stone floor away from the door. "Dude, you really gotta lay off the Wheaties." He flicked on his flashlight and shone it in Sam's face to get a good look at his brother.

Sam's eyes fluttered open and he pawed weakly at Dean's chest, then batted the flashlight away. "Elisabeth's here," he whispered.

"I know."

Sam nodded and patted Dean again. "Be careful."

"You're telling _me_ to be careful?" Dean wasn't sure if he should laugh hysterically or slug his brother. "Really? 'Cause I'm not the one who managed to get himself turned into a human ice pop."

Sam blinked at him in confusion, his eyes starting to close.

Dean patted him lightly on the cheek. "Hey, hey, none of that. Stay awake, or I'll…" He paused, trying to think of something sufficiently horrible. He leaned in closer and used his best I'm-the-boss-of-you voice. "I'll cut your hair while you sleep."

Sam opened his eyes and glared at Dean, although it lacked his usual intensity.

"That's it," Dean said, brushing actual _frost _out of Sam's hair. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," Sam said, but it ended in a cough so intense it left him breathless. "Help?"

It was then Dean noticed the handgun next to Sam on the dirty floor. He picked it up and stuffed it into his jacket. The lecture on firing off a weapon inside a stone bowl could wait until later. He looped an arm under Sam's and hauled him to his feet. When Dean felt his brother's equilibrium totter, he used his hip to balance Sam against the wall. There was absolutely no maneuverability in the tiny room, and to boot, two steps back and he'd fall into what looked like a pit filled with musty-smelling hay.

"Elisabeth," Sam said, obviously following where Dean had pointed his flashlight.

"We'll get to it later. You first," Dean said as he shone the flashlight toward the door. He reached forward, and the door, ironically, swung open as if it were never latched. "Of all the stupid…" he muttered. He stopped when Sam's knees gave out. Dean had to pivot quickly to keep his brother upright. "Come on, Sammy, one step at a time."

Sam clumsily moved his feet while Dean supported his weight and dragged him out the door. It was awkward, and Dean's back was definitely going to be screaming at him tomorrow. They'd barely made it twenty paces from the structure when Sam went down, and there was no stopping it this time. Dean just followed him, minimizing the impact of the crash landing.

"You g-gotta f-finish it," Sam stuttered through chattering teeth. Shivers wracked his tall frame, a good sign that Sam's body was trying to get warm.

Dean tugged on Sam's shirt and shook his head. "I told you. We take care of you first."

"N-no." Sam's forehead curled and his eyes, although tired, gazed at Dean earnestly.

Dean rolled his eyes. There were instances, like now, when he had a hard time not giving in to Sam when he gave him that look. It was as if twenty years had never passed and his younger brother was silently begging for Lucky Charms all over again. Burning her bones now was the smarter thing, but all Dean wanted to do was get Sam out of there and warmed up before he lost his toes. "Fine."

Dean took off his leather jacket, tucked it over Sam and under his chin. It was a sign of how miserable Sam was when he didn't protest, but in fact, pulled it closer. If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear his brother had sniffed the collar.

Sam's eyes fluttered closed. His entire body shivered and trembled, his lips a decided shade of sickly blue-gray. Dean patted him gently on the shoulder as he stood and walked the short distance back to the icehouse to get the duffel he'd dropped by the door before he'd run to the car for the ax. He slung the bag over his shoulder and entered the structure again. He flicked on his flashlight and wasn't completely surprised to see Elisabeth standing on the far side of the pit, watching him.

Unlike most spirits, she didn't make a move to stop him. There were no last minute angry shouts, strong gales of wind, or invisible hands flinging him away from the body. Instead, she simply looked on quietly with a mixture of wistfulness and relief on her face. "He's here," Elisabeth said gently as her physical body burst into flames. She simply faded from view, exiting the world as quietly as her disappearance had been.

Smoke quickly filled the small room. Dean covered his face with his shirt sleeve and coughed as he walked out of the old icehouse and hurried to his brother. Sam hadn't moved. His face was pale and he shivered so violently it almost looked like a seizure. When Dean placed a hand on his shoulder, Sam startled, his hands rising instinctively in a defensive posture.

"Easy," Dean said, moving his hands to cup Sam's icy cheeks.

Sam's movements calmed immediately. "D-Dean?"

Not good, Dean decided. Sam was definitely confused and disoriented. It was past time to go. He pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders and bodily levered him off the ground. Dean ignored the groan of protest and the way Sam's head lolled as Dean all but dragged him to the car. It seemed to take an eternity as his brother trembled and staggered beside him.

Dean braced Sam against the Impala, allowing his brother to sag against him as he opened the passenger door. He slid Sam inside and tucked his jacket around him again. Then he opened the back door to get the old quilt they kept there. After wrapping the blanket around Sam, Dean climbed in the other side and started the engine. He cranked the heat to full, turned the car around, and headed for the motel.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Sam was vaguely aware that Dean had rousted him a few times. He'd plied Sam with warm tea and soup, and there was one nightmarish memory-dream of a trip to the bathroom. For some strange reason he could have sworn Dean had only been wearing jeans and a thin t-shirt while even under a mountain of blankets, Sam couldn't get warm. He'd finally stopped shivering though, which had helped his head to stop pounding, and he was pretty sure he'd slept after that.

Which was why when he blinked his eyes open, Sam wasn't surprised to see his brother sitting on the opposite bed, his back braced against the headboard, knees bent, watching television. Dean seemed to know exactly when Sam woke because he turned off the TV and put the remote on the side table. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, arms resting on his legs.

"You awake this time?" Dean asked, hazel-green eyes sparking with concern.

_This time? _"Think so," Sam scratched out. He coughed and winced at the dryness in his throat. Dean must've seen it because a cup appeared under his nose. "Thanks." Sam shifted in the bed until he was half-sitting. He reached for the cup, noticed his hand was bandaged, and frowned in confusion.

"You scraped it up pretty good," Dean explained. "Must have been on the wall and the door because I found rock fragments and wood splinters in there. Blood on your gun, too. Do you remember?"

Remember hurting his hand or remember Dean patching him up? He didn't honestly remember either one, and that bothered him. "What happened?"

Dean's brow furrowed in concern. He scrubbed a hand down his face and then over his head. "What do you remember?"

"Looking for Elisabeth's remains when something hit me. I woke up in some old building. An icehouse maybe? Elisabeth's spirit was there." Sam frowned. "That's all I got."

"She wanted company and she about damn near froze you to death," Dean said, the venom evident in his tone. He continued to rant, but as he walked away his voice faded out.

Sam thought he'd stopped until Dean turned around and it was obvious he was still talking.

"—ammy, you listening to me?"

Losing time happened. A good knock to the head sometimes resulted in residual memory bleed-out, but his hearing? That was something else entirely. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam struggled to find the right words and finally decided brutal honesty worked. "I think I'm having trouble hearing."

That got Dean's attention. He fished through his duffel, pulled out a flashlight, and strode over to Sam. The bright light in his eyes caused Sam to wince and turn away.

"Hold still."

"Knock it off."

Dean switched from Sam's eyes to his ears, tilting Sam's head with his hand. "Good news? I don't see any blood." Dean sat on the opposite bed and turned off the flashlight. "Bad news? It still means a doctor."

Sam frowned, thinking. "Didn't you say my gun had blood on it?"

"Yeah?"

"So if I was stupid enough to fire it off in there, it would have been like a cannon going off in that enclosed space." Sam crossed his arms, prepared to go ten rounds with his brother over this, even with his throbbing headache.

"Try stupid enough to fire off your whole clip," Dean stated matter-of-factly. He leaned forward and rested a hand on Sam's knee. "But it's how I found you. Doesn't matter though, Sam. Whether it's the head concussion kind of problem or the inner ear kind, it's nothing to mess around with."

Sam felt one of his eyebrows climb into his hairline.

"Don't give me that look. It's not the first concussion you've ever had, you know." Dean stood up, walked over to the table, and grabbed his keys. "Try to get some more sleep."

"Where're you going?" Sam asked, and no, he did not just sound like his eleven-year-old self when Dean left on his first date.

Dean smiled, the lines around his eyes wrinkling in amusement. "See if this backwater town sells any warm coats that will actually fit you, and poke around for a clinic."

"I have a coat," Sam said rather crossly. He wasn't even sure why he was annoyed, just that he was. Maybe it was the headache.

"Not a warm enough one. You might have failed to notice this, but it's eighty-three degrees in here and you're buried under four blankets." Dean turned to leave, but stopped at the door and twisted to look at Sam. "Oh, and by the way, it's the concussion," he explained. "Always makes you cranky."

"How…?"

"It also makes you think you're just thinking things," Dean said, the smile turning into a classic older-brother smirk. "But you're really saying them out loud."

_Well, crap._

"You wouldn't believe the stuff I've learned just from listening to concussed or drugged Sammy ramble." Dean laughed. "I'll be back in a few."

After the door clicked shut behind Dean, Sam scooted down in the bed, pulling the covers up to his ears. He had every intention of getting up in five minutes to shower, but he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, Dean was gently shaking him awake.

"Gah, stop," Sam complained. "You're making the room spin."

"You're dizzy?" Dean asked, helping him sit up. "Good thing I found a doc. He can take a look at your head. Maybe even give you something for that cold while he's at it."

"I don't have a cold." Sam flipped back the covers to get out of bed as his bladder demanded. The cool air made him shiver and he pulled them over himself again. He could wait a few more minutes.

"You will," Dean said. "You were hypothermic, Sam."

"You don't get a cold from being cold," Sam argued. "It's a virus."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean asked, waving his arm toward Sam. "Tell that to my brother Snotty McSneezerton."

"I'm not—" Sam started to protest when a massive sneeze caused his ears to ring and a wave of nausea to run over him. Stupid know-it-all older brothers. Sometimes Dean's hunches bordered on scary. Sam peered over his hands only to see his brother giving him the raised eyebrow I-told-you-so look. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced as he pushed the blankets aside and stood.

Sam took a moment to gain his equilibrium, then carefully picked his way to the bathroom. The room was cold, so he shut the door and started the water running before taking care of business. All he really wanted to do was climb back into bed and sleep for a week.

"I bought pizza," Dean called, his voice muffled by either the closed door or by Sam's hearing impairment.

"Could we not talk until I'm out?" Sam groused. He rolled his eyes at his brother's fading laughter. Steeling himself against the nippy air, he stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water felt wonderful, slowly warming him.

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, lunch was laid out on the table. The laptop hid all of Dean's face from view except his forehead which, even from the doorway, Sam could see was scrunched in apparent frustration.

"What's up?" Sam asked, sitting down across from his brother. Dean didn't respond, so Sam pushed the monitor screen down slightly to make eye contact. "What are you doing?"

"You really are having trouble hearing," Dean said, his casual tone belied by the concern that flashed in his eyes. He gestured to the pizza. "Eat. Don't hurl."

"Your bedside manner sucks." Sam noticed his brother had picked up plain cheese at least. He gestured to the computer with the point of a slice. "What're you reading?"

"There's just something about this hunt…" Dean's voice trailed off for a second. "I'm not sure it's over."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Something about Elisabeth, I guess." Dean grabbed a slice of pizza and started munching. "She's still so afraid of Daniel after all this time, said he was there."

Sam shook his head and pointed to his ear. "Try it again without the mouthful of food."

Dean's forehead furrowed to match his frown. "I said, Elisabeth was so sure Daniel was there and she seemed afraid of him, even after all this time."

"We've seen that before." Sam took a sip of tea, relishing the hot liquid and orange flavor. He would have preferred coffee but, given the circumstances, he could see why Dean had fixed tea. The aroma wafting over from his brother's cup would have to be enough for now. "What makes you think this time is different?"

"Not sure," Dean confessed. "It might be nothing."

Sam frowned thoughtfully. Dean may trust Sam's research, but he trusted Dean's instincts. "Okay, let's go back out to the farm."

"The only place you're going," Dean said, waving a finger in Sam's direction, "is the clinic."

"Dean."

"Don't 'Dean' me." Dean closed the computer and tucked it into its bag. "This can wait."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn't very well argue. He was far from deaf, but the impairment made him a walking, talking, non-hearing liability if things went sideways. "Yeah, okay," he conceded, his tone conveying the apprehension he felt. The last thing Sam wanted was for Dean to be saddled with him out of some sense of duty. Until a qualified physician popped his bubble, Sam had to believe the hearing issue was temporary and he wasn't in any hurry to _hear _otherwise.

"Glad you see things my way." Dean grabbed another slice of pizza and jammed nearly half of it into his mouth in one bite.

Sam grimaced and chuckled silently to himself. "Whatever," he groused, but he was onto Dean. No one could break Sam out of a funk like his brother.

Dean opened his mouth, revealing a gelatinous lump of half-chewed pizza, and grinned. He gulped noisily with an exaggerated swallow. "Admit it. You totally know I'm always right."

"That's disgusting," Sam replied, gesturing to the remaining pizza in Dean's hand. "And I absolutely, unequivocally do not admit you're always right."

"Okay," Dean said with a shrug. "You don't have to admit it. It's enough that we both know it's true."

"I—" Sam started, his head pounding anew. Verbal acrobatics aside, he knew he wasn't winning this one. Not with a concussion and not when Dean was obviously playing to win. "Fine."

The answering caw of Dean's delighted cackle was almost enough to make up for it.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**The Ruin of Souls**

**Disclaimer: **The Winchesters belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Edited: **by Teajunkie. Thank you for all your help polishing this piece.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

The stop at the clinic had turned out to be relatively painless, all things considered, but it had easily sucked two hours out of the afternoon. Sam's brain felt muzzy from the heavy-duty painkiller the doctor had given him before they left, but his mind was at ease. Doctor Mersch's initial diagnosis was inner ear trauma, not bleeding in the brain, or worse: permanent damage. They'd have to wait on a few test results to be sure, but it had been promising.

Sam glanced over to the driver's seat at Dean and didn't miss the tight set of his jaw or the tension around his eyes. Obviously, something was still bothering his brother. "What're you worried about?"

Dean's eyes flicked in his direction and then resettled on the road. "I'm not worried."

Sam sighed and crossed his arms, effectively hugging himself to get warm. The new coat had helped, but he was still freezing. "Okay, what're you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking that you should stay at the motel while I check out the farm," Dean said.

Sam opened his mouth to protest and somehow, without even looking, Dean knew and held up his hand for Sam to be quiet.

"And I know you won't, so I was trying to remember if we still had rope in the trunk to hog-tie you in the car."

"Funny." Sam turned the vent so it blew directly on him and held up his hands to warm them.

"I wasn't joking," Dean deadpanned with a smirk.

Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if he'd heard Dean correctly or not. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and blurted, "What?"

The smile dropped off Dean's face and he pulled to the side of the road. He threw the car into Park and pivoted on the seat to face Sam. "Are you having trouble hearing me?"

"No," Sam protested. "Well, yeah, but no."

Dean rolled his eyes and waggled his head. "So not helping, Sammy."

"No, I'm not having trouble hearing you right now," Sam said, twisting in the seat so Dean could see he was being honest. "Provided, that is, that you truly said something about tying me into the car."

"You heard me fine." Dean twisted the key in the ignition and the engine rolled to a stop. "So, let's set the ground rules now."

Sam folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw. "Ground rules?"

"Ah, don't be like that," Dean said, slugging Sam lightly on the arm. "You think I don't know my little brother by now? I tell you not to do something and sure as shit that's the first thing you're going to do."

"I do _not_ do that," Sam argued, then grinned. "Unless you say something stupid, which—"

"You're a riot," Dean interrupted. "All I'm saying is that we need to play this thing smart. It could be nothing, I mean, _nothing _is pretty much all that's been going on at that farm for a century, right? But I don't want something to happen and for you to literally never hear it coming."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek and nodded his head. He couldn't argue there, and Dean's reasoning seemed familiar somehow. "You've got a point."

"See? That's all I'm saying. Stay in the car." Dean's face unfurled with obvious relief.

"No, I mean about nothing happening on the farm or the roadside for ages. We both checked." Sam's knee jumped in time with his whirling thoughts. "What changed?"

"I don't know, but it's been bugging me," Dean said. "How did a corpse stay hidden in an icehouse, no matter how remote, for a hundred years?"

Sam frowned and tilted his head as a faint memory tickled the edges of his consciousness. "She wasn't dry bones either. More like mummified."

"Right, and that takes, what?" Dean paused and pursed his lips before he continued. "Dry moving air? There wasn't a window or even any ventilation that I noticed in that thing."

"There wasn't." Sam shivered as cold seeped into his joints at the mere memory. "The air was stale, thin."

"So who moved her?" Dean started the car and cranked the heat. He turned back toward Sam before he asked, "And more importantly, why?"

"Looks like you're going to get your wish after all, Dean," Sam stated by way of reply.

"How's that?"

"I think you should drop me off at the motel to research some more." Sam rubbed his head in a futile attempt to jumpstart his sluggish, drug-addled brain. "See if I can't find the answer."

Dean tossed him a concerned look before he smiled. "Good plan."

Sam knew it was as much over him staying tucked away at the motel as it was the research. "I still think you should wait for me."

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized with a hint of a smirk, "but you know me. I'm not good at waiting."

"Tell me about it," Sam grumbled.

Dean didn't answer, but Sam could have sworn that the grin never left his brother's face all the way back to the motel.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Dean had all but tucked his younger brother into bed with the laptop and his cell phone before heading out again. All he planned to do—all he really had time to do with the afternoon drawing quickly to a close—was poke around for clues. He pulled into the drive of the two-story farmhouse, surprised to see an old, brown truck already parked there. He thumbed the speed dial on his phone and called his brother.

"_I'm fine," _Sam greeted him on the third ring.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Good to know. Hey, see if you can run a plate for me."

"_What?" _Sam shouted through the phone.

Apparently, they had differing opinions on the meaning of the word _fine. _"A plate," Dean repeated, raising his voice. He had a growing suspicion Sam "heard" better when he had lips and facial expressions to read. The phone was going to be a bitch. "Run a plate."

"_Text me the number," _Sam replied. _"It'll take me a few minutes."_

"Yeah, no problem," Dean said. "I just wasn't expecting company." The pause on the other end had Dean pulling the phone away from his ear as he checked the connection. "Sam?"

"_I'm sorry." _Sam's voice dripped with regret.

Dean didn't need any special abilities to know his brother was apologizing for not being able to hear and what the implications meant to them.

A man stepped out of the farmhouse, rifle drawn, and approached the car.

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Sam," Dean said, even though he knew his brother probably couldn't hear him. "I'll text you that plate." Dean hung up, quickly typed the plate into the phone, and sent it to Sam. He reached into the glove box and fumbled for the I.D. he wanted before he slid out of the car and confidently strode to the man. When caught, act as if you were meant to be somewhere and people generally responded in kind.

"Stop right there," the man commanded. "What're you doing on my property?"

"Hollister," Dean said, displaying an official-looking badge. "Building Inspector."

"Damn it," the man grumbled, lowering his weapon. "I told you guys I'd get it cleaned up."

"Sir?" Dean asked. His phone beeped through an alert and he held up a finger to the scruffy man in front of him. Dean pulled out his cell and peered at the screen. _Ray Johnson. Heir._ "Mr. Johnson," he said, pocketing his phone, "it's good to hear you're getting it cleaned up, but I'm here to check on your progress."

"Yeah, yeah," Ray muttered. He waved a hand in Dean's direction and started trudging toward the outbuilding.

"And Ray?"

Johnson stopped and turned his head to look at Dean. "Yeah?"

"How about you leave the rifle here?" Dean asked firmly. He nodded to the side of the house.

"Oh, right."

Ray propped the rifle along the wall of the house and waved an arm for Dean to follow him. The stone outbuilding had windows, filthy as they were, and Dean could see a mountain of junk inside as they approached.

"I started out here," Ray said, opening the door. "But, as you can see, it's a big project." He held the door open, but Dean shook his head.

"After you, Ray." Dean followed Johnson inside, coughing as the stench hit. It smelled of old dust, mold, and something Dean couldn't quite identify, nor was he sure he wanted to. "It's pretty ripe, Mr. Johnson. Where exactly have you started the clean up?"

Ray's haggard face curled in confusion. "You're not here about the trash?"

If this wasn't the trash, Dean hated to think of what it looked like before. "Of course I am, Mr. Johnson, I'm just not seeing very much evidence that you've made progress."

"Look, I know it's bad, but grandpa was a bona fide, what-would-you-call-it…hoarder. I'm trying to get this place cleaned up to sell it. Damn property is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but not if I can't haul this crap out. I just need time, man." Ray's face had turned bright red as he spoke, his voice gaining volume as desperation leaked out.

That explained what had changed. No doubt Ray had inadvertently stirred something up with all his efforts and vengeful spirits weren't exactly fond of change.

"Of course, Ray, I get that, and I'm willing to cut you a break here," Dean said, turning on the Winchester charm he'd perfected in his tenth grade English class with Ms. Charne. It had rarely let him down since.

Ray relaxed, his shoulders slumping. "Thanks. I mean, I'm sorry. It's just been a lot of hard, disgusting work so far, and constantly having to chase squatters and teenagers who don't realize the place is occupied and they can't hold weekend orgies here now is about to do me in."

Dean quirked an eyebrow and held a smirk at bay. "Sounds like a bitch."

"More than," Ray said with a huff of frustration. "And then, no offense, I got people like you criticizing my every move and telling me I need permits. I gotta say, I'm about ready to take a match to the whole damn place."

If Dean thought burning down the farm would get rid of whatever might still be lurking about, he'd let Ray do it, but Dean wasn't convinced. "That would be a felony, Mr. Johnson," he said in his most official tone.

Johnson held up his hands in supplication. "Hey, take it easy. Look, I never said I was actually going to burn anything."

Dean took out the notepad he kept in his jacket and flipped it open. He nodded at Ray and wrote on the pad, _pick up Tylenol and dinner. _"That's good to hear, Ray." He paused, pen poised on the paper. "Is there anything you need to tell me before I start my investigation?"

Ray sighed and flopped his arms against his sides. "No. Nothing, except that I need more time."

Dean frowned and tapped the pad with his pen before he flipped it closed and stuffed both back into his jacket pocket. "Got that. Okay, let's get this over with."

"Okay," Ray said reluctantly. "Where do you want to start?"

"Here's as good as any," Dean replied, carefully stepping over a discarded rusty bucket. As he picked his way toward the back of the building, he noticed the items were older, tools from a bygone era and gadgets that he couldn't begin to identify. He made a mental note to check it out later when he and Sam came back after Ray was gone for the night. He must not sleep at the house or they'd apparently gotten lucky last time to find the farm empty, but Dean wasn't counting on it again.

Dean turned to talk to Ray, surprised to find the room empty. "Ray?" A stone sank in the pit of his stomach as he walked toward the entrance. His phone beeped and Dean took a look at the text message. "Oh yeah, Ray, you're in this up to your eyeballs."

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Sam's fingers flew over the keyboard as he trolled through the public, and not-so-public, records. It had been easy enough to find out that Ray Johnson was the only living heir to the Johnson farm. However, if Sam knew anything, it was that things were rarely as they seemed at first glance. It had taken a little longer to find out the property had been zoned agricultural until about five weeks ago when it had inexplicably been changed to commercial, increasing the value of the property from a few hundred thousand to possibly close to a million practically overnight.

The question of why was easy: avarice. Money was a very good reason to cover up a century-old murder that would only stall the sale of the land as an investigation took place. In addition, Sam doubted the zoning change would stand up to very much scrutiny. He pulled up a map of the farm and surrounding area. The buildings themselves, historical or not, were not worth very much and probably wouldn't serve well for any business endeavor. Unless that was the point. Maybe they were trying to cash in on the historical factor because they weren't exactly in a metropolitan area.

The map didn't show the icehouse, but that didn't surprise Sam. It was a small, forgotten building tucked into a heavily wooded hillside. What he hadn't expected to find was a proposed mining site. If someone had excavated a mine, they would also have dug ventilation shafts. A site like that would have made a perfect dumping ground for a body that would also have a steady temperature with moving air.

Sam picked up his cell and quickly texted his brother, _Farm has a mine. _A better explanation could wait until Dean returned. Sam curled onto his side, pulling the laptop in close and the blankets tighter. He was freezing, and the drugs were definitely taking a toll on his ability to stay awake, never mind to concentrate. He fought it for a while as he focused on the flickering screen, but eventually he lost the battle and his eyes slipped closed.

When Sam blinked his eyes open, the sky outside the motel window was dark and gray. Rain pattered on the roof, and beside him the laptop standby light blinked steadily in a reminder of what he had been doing before his brain had switched off. He looked around the room for evidence that Dean had returned, but couldn't find any. Glancing at his watch, he saw that three hours had passed, more than enough time for Dean to wrap up what he'd been doing out on the farm and make it back.

He searched blindly for his phone, found it under his left hip, and squinted against the brightness of the display. The call history didn't reflect any calls from Dean and it had Sam bolting out of bed before a wave of dizziness caused him to stop halfway across the room, trying to regain his equilibrium. That's where he found himself when the door opened, the scent of rain sweeping in with a chilling arctic breeze. "D-Dean?" he asked, his teeth chattering.

"Dude, why are you standing here freezing?" Dean asked, latching onto Sam's elbow.

"Going to look for you," Sam said, his face curling with concern. "Where've you been?"

"Ray was only too eager to show me everything," Dean said, steering Sam toward the bed. "Well, not the mine you texted me about, but all around the farm and he's actually a chatty guy once you get him started. In fact, I'm not even sure he knows about the mine. He didn't seem like he was hiding anything."

"Well, someone got the zoning changed from agricultural to commercial a few weeks ago," Sam said, pulling out of his brother's grasp. He sat on the edge of the bed, but it was because he wanted to, not because Dean had all but manhandled him over to it. Yeah, that was it. "Maybe someone on the town's Zoning Committee?"

"Maybe," Dean said, taking a seat on the opposite bed. "Then again, he made it sound like the local bureaucracy was hassling him. Could be someone had it changed and didn't tell old Ray, though."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked hard several times in an attempt to push the headache back. "Someone is definitely positioned to make money on this deal."

"You okay?" Dean asked, his tone soft.

Then again, that could be Sam's hearing. "Yeah," Sam replied, clearing his throat to relieve his gravelly voice. "Just a headache."

"Sharp or dull?" Dean asked, reaching across the divide to place a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Relax." Sam blew out a breath and lowered his hand. "It's just a headache."

"You have a concussion, Sam." Dean sat back and scrubbed a hand down his face. "You know the drill."

"Yeah," Sam replied. He did know, but he'd been on the other side of the concussion most of the time. Dean had an amazing propensity for getting his head smacked one way or another. "Feel free to remind me how annoying it is next time."

"I will, believe me." Dean gazed at him appraisingly.

Sam did his best to look like he wasn't feeling like hammered crap, but he had a feeling he was failing miserably.

"I should go back out there tonight while Ray is gone. I don't think he's sleeping there except maybe on the weekends."

It was an odd qualification, but Sam wasn't going to ask what Dean meant by it. Something told him he didn't really want to know. "Nuh-uh, we go together."

Dean looked as if he might protest, but instead he nodded once and thumped Sam on the knee. "Can you get ready to go before we eat?"

"Absolutely." To prove it, Sam stood and carefully bent down for his boots. While Dean watched, Sam sat back down and slipped them on. He grabbed the computer and stood up. Finally, he couldn't handle the scrutiny any longer. "What?"

"Just checking." Dean didn't elucidate.

Sam didn't ask. Sometimes, it was just better that way.

Dean held up a plastic bag that had previously escaped Sam's notice. "Hungry?"

"Depends, what did you get?" Sam thought he smelled onions. A lot of them. "Burgers?"

"Nope." Dean walked over to the table and started pulling items out. He looked up before he started talking. "Sandwich for me and a salad for you and there's soup, too." He waited for Sam to take a seat. "Tell me about the mine."

"It's on an old surveyor's map from the turn of the century," Sam said, rummaging through the papers he'd printed to hand the map to Dean while he looked at the computer screen. Sam opened the lid on his salad, relieved to see that while it did have onions, there weren't too many, which meant Dean's sandwich had to be packed chock full of them. "But I can't find it on any other records, so either it was never excavated after all, or someone just never pursued it."

"My money's on it being there," Dean said, tapping the spot on the map. He unwrapped his sub and opened the chips, jamming a handful into his mouth.

"Mine, too," Sam agreed, digging into his salad. "Especially because it's pretty odd to have information that old available digitally. Either the county has spent a great deal of time and effort getting old records archived electronically or someone before us was poking around at the property and didn't cover their tracks very well."

Dean raised an eyebrow and bit into his meatball sandwich. Sam didn't need to be able to hear to know what that look said. Dean suspected the same thing he did. Someone was very interested in the old Johnson property, and considering the farm's less than stellar history, it couldn't be for innocent reasons.

They finished their meal in silence, but whether it was because they were both eating or if it was because Dean was sensitive to Sam not being able to hear well, Sam wasn't sure. Although, if it was the latter, that meant Dean was truly worried or he wouldn't be passing up the opportunity to have fun at Sam's expense. It was almost enough to make him wish his brother would try some harebrained joke just to restore a little normalcy to their lives.

"You ready?" Dean asked when the wrappers were thrown away and they'd finished their second cups of coffee. "I'm not sure we should go to the mine tonight, but I'd still like to take a look around the property without Ray knocking around."

Sam concentrated on keeping the frown off his face. He hadn't caught it all, but he'd picked up enough to get the gist of what his brother said. He hoped. "Let's go." Sam stood, too quickly it seemed as the room spun crazily on its axis until he gripped the edge of the table to ground himself. He didn't make eye contact with Dean, but continued out the door to wait in the Impala.

To his credit, Dean didn't say a word about it. They drove out to the farm, the patter of rain on the windshield and the rhythmic beat of the wipers an accompaniment to the radio, which Dean had turned down so low the words were not distinguishable, only the melody. When they pulled into the driveway, Sam could see where a truck had been parked, but there was no sign of it now. Dean killed the engine and turned in the seat to face Sam.

"Here's the deal. You stick right by me, Sam. I mean it. We're not splitting up to cover more ground, we're not getting out of eyesight of each other. If that's a problem, you can wait in the car."

Sam crossed his arms and tried to think of a reply that wouldn't escalate it into a full-blown argument. He should have known his brother wouldn't let it go that easily. The muscle in his jaw ticked with annoyance until he realized it wasn't just Dean being bossy. If their situations were reversed, Sam would be giving him the same speech, just with less of a strong-armed approach. Sam nodded and sighed deeply to let go of the tension. "It's not a problem." He smiled to let Dean know everything was okay between them. "Jerk," he added for good measure.

Dean smiled back and patted him on the shoulder. "Then let's go."

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Per Dean's instructions, Sam waited in the car while he went to the trunk for the weapons and flashlights. The rain had slowed, but it would be a wet tromp around the farm trying to dig up clues they didn't even know existed or not. If it had been up to him, Sam would be at the motel buried under the mound of blankets he'd been using since the icehouse. There was not a doubt in Dean's mind that his brother had been a hair's breadth from dangerously hypothermic. Sam had no idea how close Dean had been to dragging his sorry ass to the hospital instead of the motel room.

The truth was, however, that he could use his brother's help. Sam knew the details of the case and injured or not, an extra set of eyes never hurt. While Dean was a strategist and the one who generally pieced together patterns that others missed, Sam was the one who, more often than not, made the intuitive leaps.

Debating on whether or not to take the shovels and finally deciding it couldn't hurt, Dean tied one to the weapons bag. He'd carry it just in case they needed it. He slammed the trunk closed, and by the time he made it around to the passenger side, Sam was already climbing out.

Sam pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears. Dean didn't miss the shiver. Taking his brother out in the rain was a bad idea, but Dean was fresh out of good ones. The trouble being that it might all be for nothing. The hunt could've truly ended with Elisabeth.

"Ready?" Dean asked.

Sam's gaze continued to be focused on the surrounding area. He looked around, shielding his eyes from pelting rain with a raised hand. Finally, he turned toward Dean and asked, "Ready?"

Dean frowned but nodded and stepped forward, taking the lead. His flashlight cut through the darkness, reflecting raindrops as it bobbed along the ground with each step. The one place Ray hadn't taken him was the house, and Dean wanted a look inside. It would be drier, and that alone was almost reason enough to start there. The front door squeaked like a slasher movie cliché as the brothers stepped inside. Sam walked past him and made a beeline for the sturdy bookcase in the next room. Dean shook his head affectionately. _You can take the geek out of Stanford…_

Movement in his peripheral vision had Dean spinning around just in time to catch a whiff of ozone. "Look alive, Sammy!" he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the kitchen. A flickering light caught his attention and he cautiously moved forward, poking his head around the open door. A woman in clothes similar to those Elisabeth had worn appeared to be searching through invisible items in the pantry.

He raised his shotgun, setting his sights on the spirit when she turned in his direction. "He's here," she said, her voice containing a sadness that a century of disembodiment hadn't managed to erase.

Dean's eyes went wide and he risked taking his eyes off the spirit in front of him to glance about the room. A ghost of a man hovered not more than a few feet from Sam. "Sam!" Dean shouted, once more sighting the weapon.

Sam twisted to look at Dean, confusion clearly visible in the raised eyebrows even from this distance. His eyes widened as the spirit moved in a fraction of a second to stand between the brothers. With inhuman force, it slammed Sam up against the bookcase. Its hammy arm sought out his throat with deadly accuracy. The ghost leaned in closer, pressing harder until Sam gasped for breath as he tried to struggle out of its hold.

"You can't have it. It's mine," the spirit growled.

"Shit," Dean swore. Shooting the spirit now would mean his brother would get hit by the salt pellets as well, but at least it wouldn't be choking him anymore. The strangled sounds from Sam cut through any reluctance he felt and Dean readied to fire. "Hey!" he shouted in a last-ditch attempt to garner the spirit's attention.

It worked. The spirit flickered twice, its arm falling away from Sam's neck. The next moment Sam sailed through the air, landing hard on a small table before he crashed to the floor. The spirit flickered again; Dean's flashlight sputtered and went out. He hit it several times against the palm of his hand. When the light came back on, the spirit hovered directly in front of him. Dean's jaw ticked, his lips pressed together in a tight smirk. "Go to hell," he growled, firing the shotgun.

The spirit howled angrily as it dissipated in a swirling mist.

"Sammy?" Dean rushed for the huddled lump in the corner, hoping that somehow his brother had just been thrown clear, relatively unharmed. He fell to his knees on the filthy hardwood floor. "Sam?"

Sam gasped, his eyes fluttered open, and he curled into a half-sitting position. He coughed until his eyes watered and it dissolved into wheezing, shaky breaths. "What happened?"

"You had an up close and personal with another damn ghost," Dean said, his voice a low snarl of anger. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Sam's fingers curled, crinkling the creases of Dean's leather jacket. "Help me up?"

Dean looped an arm through his brother's, leaned in close, and shifted to help him stand when Sam's eyes widened and his breath hitched slightly. Dean slowly reached down, his fingers touched the cool metal of his gun. In one smooth motion he moved to block his brother from the threat behind him, and twisted to bring his weapon to bear.

The woman spirit stood not more than a few feet from him, her face pinched in sorrow, and the family resemblance to the ghost who'd just knocked Sam around was unmistakable.

"He used to be such a sweet boy," she said, wringing her hands. "Such a sweet, sweet boy."

"Judith?" Dean guessed, keeping the weapon trained on the spirit. She seemed to be riding out her reality as it was a hundred years ago, oblivious to the fact that anything or anyone around her had changed. "Judith, where's Daniel?"

The spirit didn't respond, just continued her frenetic pacing. Her emotional state appeared to border on hysteria as she flicked in and out, wringing her hands. "Such a sweet boy."

Dean held his shotgun steady. Judith was a threat no matter how innocuous she appeared. Spirits were fond of nothing if not familiarity and repeat performances of their lives, including the violence that ended them. Dean wasn't about to let any of that violence near his brother again tonight. She moved closer, her form wavering. Sam tensed next to him and that was all the incentive Dean needed to pull the trigger.

The spirit's form hadn't completely disappeared when Dean turned his attention back to his brother and with only a quick nod between them, pulled Sam to his feet. "Let's go, Sammy. It's like a freaking Johnson family reunion around here." He didn't wait for a response, just tugged on his brother's sleeve and half-dragged him out of the house.

Sam pulled free from Dean's grasp at the car. He ripped open the passenger door, leaned inside, and emerged with papers in hand. "It was never Daniel," he said when Dean stepped closer.

"No, it was their son." Dean reached into his jacket pocket for his flashlight. He flicked it on and shone it at the papers. "What're you doing?"

"I think Elisabeth's body was in that mine," Sam explained, his voice gravelly from the near strangulation.

"We've already taken care of her." Dean stepped closer, his shoulder pressed against his brother's so he could see.

"Yeah, but I think it's definitely what Daniel Jr. is trying to protect. What if he's still there, too?"

Dean could feel Sam trembling where their shoulders touched. "Nothing a salt and burn won't fix."

"If we can find him." Sam looked at him, his lips pinched from pain.

"We start at the family plot," Dean said, resting a hand on his brother's back. "Sometimes the easiest answer is the right one."

Sam snorted, his mouth quirking in a brief smile. "That'd be a first for us."

Dean jerked his head to the side. "There's a first for everything, bro." He paused, then fixed Sam with a hard stare. "Doesn't have to be tonight."

"No," Sam said, his murky hazel-greens searching out Dean's. "We need to take care of Daniel tonight. Someone could get hurt."

"Someone did get hurt," Dean said, his tone hard. "Well then, I guess it's grave digging time."

"Agreed." Sam's hand shook as he reached for the map, folded it, and jammed it into his pocket. "But we do it tonight, both of us."

Dean huffed and bit back a string of frustrated obscenities. Instead, he nodded and patted himself on the back for how calm he managed to sound when he asked, "I don't suppose there's any point in asking you one more time to stay here?"

Sam just gave him _the _look.

Dean nodded. "Didn't think so." He scrubbed a hand down his face, then held out his arm in the direction of the plot to usher Sam along. They trudged up the hill while the rain came down in a steady but light mist, chilling Dean, so he wasn't surprised to see his brother shivering even in his new thicker coat. Sam might insist on accompanying him, but Dean was calling the shots from here on out, whether his brother liked it or not.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**The Ruin of Souls**

**Disclaimer: **The Winchesters belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Edited: **by Teajunkie. Thank you for all your help polishing this piece.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

It took less time than Sam would have suspected to get to the family plot, although his head throbbed and he shivered mercilessly as they walked, so it was entirely possible he'd just lost track of time. Dean thrust the shotgun into Sam's hands and jerked his head toward the gravesite. "Keep a lookout?"

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice past chattering teeth. He leaned against the tree behind him for additional support, using it as a grounding force. He watched his brother begin searching the family plot for the right grave. "Daniel _Junior_!"

Dean looked up at Sam. "I know," he muttered with an exasperated huff. After a few passes, Dean dropped the weapons bag to the ground. "Yahtzee!" He picked up the shovel and started digging.

It was slow going digging out a grave, even with their years of experience, and down by one man, it was taking even longer. Sam blinked slowly as he fought off growing fatigue. He pulled his collar up to protect his neck from the chilling night breeze and large water droplets falling from the ancient evergreen needles above.

Dean tossed the shovel out of the grave and seconds later, he followed in a graceful leap. As Dean poured the salt, Sam scanned the area. The most dangerous time during a salt and burn was from the exposure of the bones to the lighting of the final match. Just when he thought they might truly have gotten lucky this time, he caught the flicker of light near the trees. "Dean, watch out!" he shouted.

"Sam, stay back!" Dean worked faster, pouring lighter fluid over the salt. He tossed the can to the side, pulled out a cheap book of gas station matches, lit one, and used it to start the entire pack on fire. Daniel appeared behind Dean.

"That gold-digging hussy can't have it. You can't have it. It's my birthright!" Daniel Jr.'s spirit enveloped Dean, sending them both into the open grave in a cloud of sulfuric dust.

"Dean!" Sam sprinted for the grave, praying his brother had managed to smother the flames. Before Sam reached the open lip, Dean was bodily thrown clear to a distance of nearly twenty feet where he hit one of the old stone markers.

Dean groaned, pushing himself up with shaking arms. The spirit didn't materialize this time, it just picked Dean up and tossed him again. Sam skidded to a stop at Daniel's grave and with trembling fingers, fumbled for the matches he kept in his jacket. His hand was shaking so hard from the cold and the excess adrenaline that it took three tries to get them lit.

The matchbook arced through the air, and Sam was rewarded with a plume of orange flames seconds later. He spun on his heels and came face to face with Judith. This just wasn't their night.

"Thank you," she said softly, fading from view with a slight smile on her face.

Sam didn't waste any more time as he searched the area for his brother. On the far edge of the family plot under the spreading limbs of a tall sycamore tree, lay Dean. Sam stumbled toward him, the burst of energy quickly fading and his equilibrium faltering. He collapsed beside his brother. "Dean?"

Dean groaned, his arm wrapped protectively around his middle, and squinted against the light shining over him.

Sam ran his hands down Dean's ribcage and legs, searching for blood or broken bones. "Are you okay?"

"Personal space, dude, and yeah," Dean grunted. "We get him?"

"We got him. Ribs?" Sam asked, recognizing the tightness in his brother's breathing.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said. "I'm good though."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and willed back the nausea bubbling in his stomach.

"Are you?" Dean asked.

"Mmm—yeah," Sam hummed, closing his eyes. He tried to swallow the lump in the back of his throat. It didn't work. "No." He twisted his head and vomited, barely managing to keep from face-planting in it. Sam sat back, the world flipped, and he fell to the ground as awareness clicked off.

When Sam opened his eyes, the sky was slightly lighter and Dean hovered over him, his face pulled tight with concern. "Gah," Sam groaned and held his stomach. _Great, I fainted like a girl._ There was no way Dean would let him live this one down.

"Passed out," Dean corrected him.

Sam's forehead curled with confusion.

"When you save your brother's ass from an angry spirit, it's called passing out, not fainting."

_Wonderful. _Sam must have said it out loud.

"But you're still a girl." Dean looped an arm around Sam's and pulled him to a seated position.

Sam didn't miss the wince or the way Dean kept an arm wrapped around his torso for support.

"Ha-ha." Sam pressed a hand to the soggy ground to stabilize himself.

"Swooned like a regular Scarlett O'Hara." Dean patted Sam's arm, silently asking if he was ready to stand.

Sam nodded and successfully swallowed back another wave of nausea. "You're a riot."

Both brothers groaned in unison as Dean hauled Sam to his feet.

"Need me to loosen your corset strings there, bro?" Dean teased, but he didn't release his hold on Sam's elbow as they started walking.

"Shut up," Sam bit out past a smile.

"I'm just saying, I'm here for you."

"Yeah, me too."

The sun was barely cresting the horizon when they slid into the car. Sam's head pounded mercilessly, his joints ached from the cold, and Dean? Well, he looked as if he'd gone ten rounds with Ali, but they were both relatively in one piece and at the end of the day—or the beginning—that was all that mattered.

Dean started the car and cranked the heat. Sam didn't miss the way his hand trembled minutely as he reached for the levers. "I need to take a look at those ribs when we get back," Sam said, his tone daring Dean to contradict him.

Surprisingly enough, Dean didn't. He just pressed his lips together in a thin line and nodded. "Same for your head."

"I wish we knew who was trying to make money off that farm," Sam said, abruptly changing the subject.

"It's not our problem." Dean spared Sam a glance before refocusing on the road. "We can't fix everything. Sometimes, just doing our job has to be enough."

"Yeah, I know." Sam wasn't sure what he would do with the information even if he had it, but an anonymous tip to either Ray or the Zoning Committee would have been satisfying.

"We're done here," Dean announced firmly. He waited until Sam nodded in agreement before turning the car around and heading to the motel.

Sam leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. His brother was right. Sometimes, just doing their job had to be enough. Perfect endings didn't really exist.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

They'd only taken time to shower and patch up the worst of their injuries before they'd crashed for the night two towns over. The various takeout containers scattered about the room kept track of time. Between the Chinese and pizza boxes and the crumbled burger wrappers, Dean knew they'd been there for nearly two days.

Sam sat at the table, hunched over the laptop, with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Dean didn't know who his brother was talking to, but Sam was using his I'm-a-lawyer tone of voice. "Yes, I'll pass along your message. Thank you, Mr. Johnson." He thumbed off his phone and looked over the computer at Dean. "You're awake."

"It's overrated." Dean sat up farther in the bed, tucked extra pillows behind him, and reached for the television remote. He nodded toward Sam's phone. "Ray?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I contacted him yesterday morning to warn him about the zoning change and how someone seemed interested in his property. He just called to inform me that once officials started an investigation, some schmuck down in records admitted to not only changing the zoning, but also to finding a body in the mine and moving it." He fixed Dean with a pointed look. "Of course, vandals had unfortunately started a fire in the icehouse where he'd stashed it."

Dean smirked. "He'd have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for our meddling."

Sam groaned, rolled his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean, you just compared us to Scooby Doo."

"Well, you _are_ enough of a geek to be Velma," Dean said, with a shoulder shrug. "And I definitely have Fred's way with women."

"With your appetite?" Sam shook his head as he turned his attention back to the computer. "Try Shaggy."

"Whatever." Dean turned on the television and flipped through the channels. He'd said it before, but daytime television really did suck. He sighed dramatically and tossed the remote onto the table. "I'm bored."

Sam looked up from his laptop. "Oh, God."

"What?" Dean asked. It sounded as if Sam had found them a hunt by his tone. At least his hearing seemed to be improving every day.

"You and bored always means me on the receiving end of some very annoying behavior." Sam closed his laptop and started packing it away.

"No it doesn't," Dean said, not bothering to keep the indignation out of his tone. "I'm a joy to be around."

The snort of derision from Sam came complete with a wet sounding raspberry of disbelief.

"Hey!"

"What about the time you kept launching M & Ms into my coffee?" Sam curled his legs around the edge of the bed to sit facing Dean.

"I was going for a record," Dean explained, turning to mirror Sam's position. "I'd think my brother would want me to go for the goal."

Sam nodded, pursing his lips. "And the time you lined up all those beer cans on the inside of the shower curtain?"

Dean smiled at the memory. "You screamed like a girl."

"Did not," Sam contradicted. "And so not the point." He stood and started stuffing his clothes into his duffel. "What about when you took apart my iPod?" he asked over his shoulder on his way to the bathroom.

"I thought it might work better than the Walkman for an EMF meter," Dean defended loud enough for Sam to hear in the other room. "It's not like you don't have any annoying traits."

Sam appeared in the doorway and raised an eyebrow. "Shoot."

Sam had annoyed him plenty of times, but given the opportunity to vent one free and clear, Dean couldn't come up with a single legit thing. "You do this _thing._"

"Thing," Sam said, nodding his head. "Wow, that's specific."

Dean narrowed his eyes and tossed the pillow at his brother. "You're doing it right now."

Sam chuckled and stepped around the pillow to grab his duffel and the laptop bag.

"Sam?"

Sam stopped at the table, dug into Dean's jacket pocket and retrieved the keys to the Impala.

"Sam?" he growled.

Sam stopped and smiled innocently. "Yeah?"

"What're you doing?" Dean asked. The hard edge in his voice was enough to stop most men in their tracks, but not his younger brother.

Sam smiled wider, dimples appearing. "Driving."

"What?" Dean fought with the blankets to get off the bed. "No, you're not."

"I am." Sam held the keys over his head and jingled them noisily.

Dean cursed himself for all the times he'd done that to his much shorter younger brother when they were kids. It was damn annoying. With bruised ribs there was no way he could jump for them so he settled for scowling instead. "Sam!"

Sam simply laughed and headed out the door, forcing Dean to scramble madly to catch up to him. He didn't even bother with his boots, just threw all his stuff into the duffel and ran out the door, bag in one hand, shoes in the other. He half-expected to see Sam in the passenger seat laughing at his expense, but no, his brother really was parked behind the steering wheel.

Dean stomped to the car as well as he could in his socks and tossed his bag into the backseat. He crossed his arms and glared sullenly at Sam who was giving him an odd, raised-eyebrow-of-amusement look. "What?"

Sam shrugged and twisted the key in the ignition. "If it were me, I would have gone with shoes, is all."

Dean glanced down at his attire: jacket, shirt, jeans, socks. "That's because you're a stick in the mud, Sammy," he said with a smirk.

Sam chuckled and turned the car onto the highway. "A stick in the mud with shoes on." He flicked on the radio.

Dean smiled. It wasn't all bad. No shoes meant he could put his feet on the dash if he wanted—not that he ever would—and it wasn't often that he could rest in the car while Sam drove for hours. He'd have both hands free to eat, or harass his brother. Yeah, this not driving thing could be okay.

Just this once.

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Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading!

Author's Note 2: I separated it into pieces strictly for ease of reading, but I posted them all at once so you can still read it as a one-shot, too. :)


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